


alittlepudge's 20 days of chub kink challenge fics

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Daredevil (TV), Halt and Catch Fire, Pushing Daisies, Veep, iZombie (TV)
Genre: 20 days of chub kink, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Kink, Eating, Eating Kink, Fluff, Overeating, Platonic Belly Rubs, Stuffing, Weight Gain, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the little ficlets i've been churning out for iwritetheweirdstuff's <a>chub kink meme</a>! fandom-wise they're all over the place, so there's a lot of variety! i'm having a lot of fun with these and i hope y'all are having a lot of fun reading them too. i'll be updating as i go, so stay tuned!! i've been trying to post them semi-regularly, and i do intend to do the full list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. day 1: unintentional weight gain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jake x amy, brooklyn nine-nine.

Jake kinda doesn’t mean to put on fifteen pounds in his first month of dating Amy. But it’s hard to keep his mouth shut in the office that first week, and it’s hard not to tell Charles and it’s hard not to brag to Rosa and mostly it’s so hard not to give Amy the smiles he wants to give her, so instead, he loads his desk drawers with chips and Oreos and M&Ms and Cheetos and shoves something into his mouth whenever he’s tempted to spill the good news.

It’s _really_ hard not to say anything, okay?

\---

And then suddenly everyone knows and he’s slept with Amy and holy shit, they kinda killed a guy, and they decide, what the hell, they’re dating.

(“If we don’t,” says Amy gravely, propped on an elbow in his bed, “Dozerman’s death will be in vain, won’t it?”)

So they continue, cautiously. Jake stuffs his face less at work - Hitchcock and Scully raided his desk a while ago and took all the good stuff, and now all that’s left in its place are some of those weird chewy mints he’s amassed from restaurants and a package of Ring Dings that have been there so long that they’ve begun to fossilize. But he thinks he’d be snacking less even if his snack drawer were still intact, because now he saves his appetite for his standing dinner plans with Amy.

Amy, it turns out, knows where to find a lot of food he’s never even heard of, and not the weird stuff Charles brings for lunch and stinks up the break room with either. Amy shows him the glories of naan and shawarma and truffle mac and cheese and fig-and-mascarpone ice cream sandwiches, on top of a whole other edible treasure trove of foods Jake can’t even pronounce.

Amy takes him to the Indian place she likes near her apartment, and he takes her to the burger joint near his, and they see how many Coney Island hot dogs they can eat one night in the chilly beachfront breeze. (Amy calls it quits after one and a half, but Jake makes it to five and spends the rest of the night trying to ignore how snug his jeans feel.) They explore the worst dive bars in the city and sample beers and wings at each, but they agree that nothing beats the dive bars in the nine-nine. He thinks he might be falling in love.

(Maybe with Amy. Definitely with naan.)

He doesn’t notice the weight all at once. There’s little things, like the snug jeans and the way his button-downs pull a little more than usual over his belly, but he chalks that up to bloating or a bad load of laundry. Dimly, he registers the swell of pudge over his waistband when he buttons his jeans, but Jake’s been a chubby kid, a chubby teenager, a chubby college dude, and only sort of evened out once he had to pay for his own groceries _and_ rent, so the extra softness doesn’t grab his attention at first.

Mostly, he notices because Amy’s hands wander to his waist more often now, and they seem to be … grabbing a lot. He’s got a little paunch, he knows that, isn’t bothered by it, but last he checked, there wasn’t enough to grab the kind of handfuls Amy’s coming up with.

“Hey,” he says one night, craning his neck backward to look at her. She likes being his big spoon sometimes, kissing the back of his neck and and resting her chin on his shoulder and running her fingers down the curve of his body. At the moment she’s gently, absently pinching at the squishy part of his stomach, thumbing at his navel. “Can we, um … what’s happening here?”

“Hmm?” she says, more than a hum into his ear than a word.

He covers her hand with his, still a little awed by how his hands swallow hers. “This, um, this grabbing thing. That you keep doing.”

From this angle, he can see it - shit, there is a lot more. His belly sags a little against the mattress, and he notices, with a little jump in his chest, a couple fresh pink stretch marks among his old pale ones.

“This?” Amy asks, softly squeezing his belly.

He nods.

“I can stop if you want,” she says, and when he turns back to her, her mouth is tight like it gets when Holt criticizes her. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. I get that it might not be fun for you.”

“No, it’s just … I didn’t even realize I was getting fat again,” he says. It comes out a little more self-consciously than he’d like, and he can tell by her expression that it’s not lost on her.

“You okay?” she asks, pushing herself closer to him. Her hand moves from his stomach and settles in his hair.

“Yeah. It’s been a while since I looked like this, is all.” He peers down again, looking past his belly roll. His hips look chunky from here, his thighs pale and soft. “Not a bad thing. Just a new thing. A newish thing. An old thing that is now new again.”

“I think it’s sweet,” she says, palming the curve of his belly. “Puppy fat.”

He grimaces. “That makes me sound like a kid.”

“You do eat like a five-year-old,” she counters.

“Hey, I’ve grown up a lot eating with you,” he says, settling into his back. She stays propped on her elbow, fingers trailing back over the patch of hair on his belly. “You’re turning me into an adult or something.”

“You say _that_ like it’s a terrible thing.”

He grabs her hand. “With anyone else,” he says, kissing it, “it would be.”


	2. day 2: being in denial about weight gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dan egan, veep.

It feels unnatural to Dan, not being in the Eisenhower Building every waking hour of his days. His prescribed three weeks of relaxation and decompression have been more stressful than any DC fiasco he can think of - doctors don’t realize that he _needs_  that chaos, that he can’t function without a stimulus. He needs something to wind him up so he can go, and three weeks of channel-surfing and sleeping in lose their luster after day 2, nap #3.

He tries, at first, to help himself with tips out of the small forest of pamphlets the hospital sent home with him. He shuts off all his alarms, takes hot baths, tries deep breathing exercises before he goes to sleep. He even manages to stay off social media for a whole half hour. (His heart starts to race after the twenty-five minute mark, and when he finally caves and pulls up Politico, there’s a rush of relief like nothing those anxiety meds ever gave him.)

He keeps a close eye on the news, waiting for some Selina scandal to break, waiting for Amy to fuck up, but the headlines don’t come, and that makes him anxious when he fixates on it. Amy can do his job better than he can, he’s always known that, but he’s wary of seeing it proven when he’s not even there to offer competition. He does some deep breathing exercises, but he still feels like he’s underwater.   
  
The one thing he manages to keep consistent is that, per the pamphlet’s suggestion, he doesn’t deny himself any pleasures. He managed to wheedle paid medical leave out of the government, at least, so he doesn’t feel too bad about ordering in or going out whenever a craving strikes him. It occurs to him, halfway through the most spectacular antipasto salad he’s ever laid utensils on, that he can’t remember the last time he ate something green and leafy. Maybe that was part of his body’s decision to cease all functioning. He finishes the salad, and the pizza it accompanied, and falls asleep on the couch with the news on, full and content.  
  
He feels better with food, less like he’s floundering. There’s something comforting in building a routine around it, which, he supposes, is what other people do, people who don’t structure their meals around kiss-ass business dinners, coffee breaks, and the vending machine’s selection of protein bars. He kind of likes waking up when his body wants to and walking to the coffee shop down the block for breakfast. He kind of likes lattes and warm doughnuts and slipping into flannels in the morning instead of buttoning himself into suits.   
  
As much as idleness makes him itch, he has to admit that there’s an appealing, cozy sense of peace in curling up on his couch with the six o'clock news and and a beer and an order of lasagna  or wings or tandoori chicken all to himself. Uneasily, suspiciously, he gets used to it. This isn’t what he’s wired for, he thinks, but the way the tension melts from him, day by day, hints otherwise.  
  
But then he’s only got a few days left before he can make his return to the EEOB, and the surge of anticipation knocks him flat with its urgency. He starts setting his alarm again, and considers shaving the beard he’s been cultivating over the past few weeks. Shaving has felt like an unnecessary effort, and he thinks it makes him look breezy, unaffected, a little wise beyond his years. He keeps it.

He buys himself a couple new suits to psych himself up. The size he usually wears is snug - he has trouble buttoning the trousers, and the jacket falls awkwardly around his hips, so he tries the next size up. Maybe it’s the cut, he figures. Maybe it was mistagged, maybe it was a fluke he grabbed off the rack. The next size up looks great, and he preens for a moment in the mirror. The angle of the mirror makes him look a little thicker than he’s used to, but he disregards it. He’s been the same weight since college; he knows what he looks like.   
  
The suit he chooses on his first day back, it’s snugger than when he bought it. There’s no getting around that. But he’s been living in sweats and loose jeans and worn-out t-shirts for the past few weeks; of course even Armani feels tight and stiff after all that softness. Plus, he probably lost a lot of weight in the weeks before his episode - the doctors kept calling it a nervous collapse, which he hates - and it’s good that he’s putting that back on. Healthy.  
  
He stops at the coffee shop for one final, nostalgic latte and doughnut.  
  
He gets off the train feeling good. He shakes himself out a little before going into the building, takes a deep breath and does some of his breathing exercises. His belt pinches a little at his stomach, and he digs a finger between his skin and waistband to stretch it out a little.  
  
As soon as he steps into the building he feels calmer somehow, like he’s entered the eye of the storm. He takes a deep breath, gets in the elevator.  
  
The floor is bustling when the doors open, and instantly he feels like he’s back in the water. He wades through a stream of interns toward Selina’s office, and to his dismay, nobody is looking in his direction when he enters.  
  
He’s hoping maybe Amy will look up, maybe smile. Maybe she’ll say something about his beard.  
  
But it’s Mike who glances up first, with a look on his face like he’s hunting for an out for whatever discussion he’s embroiled in, and it’s not a smile that crosses his face, but a smirk.  
  
“The prodigal scum returns!” he announces, and  _then_  Amy turns, and then Ben and Kent and some college kid Dan has never seen before.  
  
Amy looks cautious, a little regretful - as she should, for someone who left him in a British hospital when for all she knew he could have been dying - but she smirks a little too, and he’s suddenly unsure of himself. Amy is doing his job now - did he get fired completely without being told?  
  
And then Mike is beside him, guffawing and poking at his stomach. “Put on a few, huh, pretty boy?”  
  
Dan’s face goes hot. “Good to see you too, Calamity Mike. I’m amazed your contract survived the ten minutes you were in charge of this place.”  
  
“I’m amazed your belt’s surviving  _this_ ,” says Mike, poking again. Dan brushes him off, takes a step away, looks down at himself. There isn’t that much, is there?  
  
“I’m fine,” he tells Mike, slinging his back onto his desk. His ears are ringing a little, his body getting warm, and sure, he was prepared for some heckling when he got back, but there’s no reason for Mike -  _Mike_ , of all people, of all unfortunate physical builds - to be picking on  _this_.   
  
Amy gets up and comes closer. “You look recovered,” she says, a smirk still riding the edge of the words. “Must’ve been nice to have that lazy little vacation.”  
  
“Lazy?” he says, and he hates that his hand moves to his stomach. “Have you guys been doing anything in here? There hasn’t been anything about Selina on Politico in days. Did her administration grind to a halt or are you all just terrible without me?”

“Nah,” says Ben, coming up behind Mike, “we’ve been thriving. And so, apparently, have you.”

His shit-eating grin is trained directly on Dan’s middle. 

“Okay,” says Dan, hands up, defensive. “I’m going to find Selina and try to make things actually happen, and when I get back I want you all to shut the fuck up about my vacation.”

He grabs his bag and stalks to the men’s room, makes sure he’s alone, and then stands in profile in the mirror. He smoothes his tie so it won’t create a bulge, and then realizes that the bulge he’s seeing isn’t from his tie. 

He lifts his tie, pulls open his jacket. His sides swell over his waistband; his stomach looks soft beneath his shirt, pushing a little over his belt. Like rewinding a film reel, he relives every single food choice he’s made in the past three weeks, every second beer, every nap he took instead of going for a run.

He grabs his belly in his hands, just enough for two handfuls, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s got some work to do.


	3. day 3: holiday weight gain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ned x chuck, pushing daisies.

When Ned is twenty-nine years, one hundred and sixty-two days, and four hours old, he celebrates his first Hanukkah.

Chuck and her aunts have been spending a lot of time together since their reunion - as expected - and most often, they’ve been cooking together. Although he misses Chuck on the days she decides to spend in Lily and Vivian’s kitchen instead of his, Ned, a strong proponent of healing through food, is more than happy to see her coming home even more radiant than usual, brimming with stories and recipes and love.

One afternoon, she returns with flour smattered across her dress, cheeks pink, bearing a massive Tupperware of what appears to be casserole.

“Kugel!” she says brightly when he asks, prying off the lid and offering it to him. “Lily and Vivian and I decided we want to host Hanukkah this year, and we thought a little preview of dessert might be a nice way to invite you. I’m gonna bring some to Olive and Emerson too.”

He takes a fork out of the drawer near the sink and digs it into the Tupperware. It’s rich, creamy, lightly sweet, studded with raisins, and he nods at her. “This is great, Chuck.”

“Come to Hanukkah,” she says, grinning. She takes two smaller Tupperwares from the cabinet above the fridge and a large spoon from the cutlery drawer. “There’ll be a lot more where that came from.”

“I can’t wait,” he says, watching her scoop out two portions of kugel and ladle them into the waiting containers. “I’ve never celebrated Hanukkah before.”

“Well, your first one’s gonna be a doozy,” she says, packing the containers into a bag. “Lily and Vivian have a huge menu planned. We practiced our Hebrew a little today and that was a lot of fun. We’re not as good at Hebrew as we are at Yiddish, though. I’m not sure we’ll be able to get all the blessings exactly right, but we’ll sound okay.”

“I won’t know the difference,” Ned assures her.

“True. I’m gonna bring these over to Olive and Emerson and give them their formal invitations; I’ll be back soon. Help yourself to the rest of the kugel if you want, I had plenty at Lily and Vivian’s.”

“Might take you up on that,” he says, and she kisses his cheek through a napkin before breezing out of the apartment.

He deliberates over the kugel for a few minutes, thumbing at the soft roll of his stomach, halfheartedly trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need it. The rest of the holidays are coming up soon, and there’ll be stress-eating and desserts and laziness, and his pants are already snug …

But Chuck likes when he enjoys her food. Chuck likes sharing her heritage with him, and Chuck keeps testing out Yiddish terms of endearment on him, and Chuck will be really happy if he takes her up on this kugel.

The rest of the pan is gone by the time she comes home, bearing dumplings from the restaurant beneath Emerson’s office, and she  _is_  really happy to find Ned spread out on the couch, stuffed to the seams and waiting for her.  

—

He still isn’t used to the joyful chaos of holidays, still isn’t used to the excitement and the warmth and god, all the touching. Chuck is almost fully covered, wearing her opera gloves along with her dress, so that’s one less thing to worry about, but still - everyone wants to hug him or kiss him on the cheek or touch his shoulder while they speak, and he shies away from the attention at first. He’s too shy to help himself to appetizers when no one else is eating, and he watches, with a sinking heart, as Vivian and her tray of loaded hors d’oeuvres plates get caught up in conversation with Olive across the room.

He hangs back while the conversation blooms around him, sipping his wine and fighting the urge to cling to Chuck, who’s shining in the center of the room. Olive keeps talking about her own fond holiday traditions, and Emerson chimes in with his own wild tale of his mother’s holiday horrors once he’s had a couple glasses of brandy - but Ned doesn’t really have any feel-good memories or anecdotes to add.

Until Vivian pushes a plate of latkes at him and says “Eat, eat!” and he can finally engage.

“Cumin?” he guesses, after a first bite that makes him want to shove the rest into his mouth at once. She nods, her smile a dialed-back version of Chuck’s, and he takes another bite.

“Try the sauce,” she urges, and he swabs another bite through what he’d assumed was sour cream.

“Oh, my god,” he says, covering his mouth as he chews. “That’s incredible. Is that cilantro? And mint?”

She nods again, her smile brightening. “Charlotte’s been urging us to shake things up a little, so I’m trying to do that with food. Do you like it?”

“It’s amazing,” he says, as Chuck comes up behind him and puts a hand on his waist. “I could eat nothing but these for the rest of my life and I’d be happy.”

Chuck pulls him closer, gently squeezing at his muffin top. “So would I,” she murmurs. “Come on, Lily and I set up the rest of the food in the kitchen. Let’s get you dinner.”

He finishes his latkes in a hurry and follows her to the kitchen.

“I’m letting you take control here,” he says, handing her a plate. “I’m not extensively familiar with traditional Jewish food, and I trust your judgment.”

She wiggles her eyebrows and flashes a smile at him. “Your first mistake,” she teases. “You’re getting some of everything.”

Chuck and her aunts have decided that it’ll be easier for the group of them to eat around the coffee table in the living room, rather than have a formal dinner. Ned wedges himself between Chuck and one arm of the couch, aware of the space his hips take up, and makes sure he gives them both enough space to eat safely without brushing against each other. There’s a fire going in the fireplace, and the lights are dim and warm, and he laughs as he catches the punch line of the joke Emerson is telling, and at long last he feels like he belongs exactly where he is.

They’re the last to leave at the end of the night, Chuck still burning like the end of a candle, ever exuding warmth and glow, although Ned can see that she’s getting tired. From where he’s sunk into the couch, legs spread, he watches her stifle yawns as she picks up stray glasses and napkins from the coffee table and various end tables, and his whole body feels like it’s been enveloped with that warmth.

“Need any help?” he asks, stifling a burp.

She shakes her head. “You stay right there,” she says good-naturedly. “You’re not in any condition to be moving around.”

He dips his head in acknowledgement, rubbing his stomach when it twinges. He’s a little too full to move comfortably, weighed down with latkes and and roasted beets and challah and spinach kugel and cinnamon-apricot kugel and rugelach and sufganiyot. Chuck has been talking up Lily and Vivian’s culinary skills since he brought her back from the dead, but even that couldn’t have prepared him for how incredible and rich their Hanukkah treats are.

Chuck tousles his hair with a gloved hand as she passes. “Might have to roll you home, hmm?” she says in an undertone, and although the wine and massive amount of food already have Ned pretty flushed, he feels his face get warmer.

“Maybe,” he manages.

Chuck drives home, and he’s a little glad that she looks tired too, because he’s too drowsy for anything but snuggling and sleep once they get into bed. Chuck palms his belly through the plastic sheet once they’re settled, rubbing the spots that make him close his eyes with pleasure and relief, prodding until he burps when his stomach gurgles.

“Look at you,” she says softly, paying special attention to the spot under his navel. He lets out a little moan as the ache in his stomach momentarily dissipates. “Look how full and round you are, mmmmm.”

He hiccups, and she chuckles as her hand jumps with his stomach.

“Good first Hanukkah?”

He groans, rocking his hips in an attempt to scoot himself closer to her. It’s as much movement as he can muster at the moment. “The best. I’m gonna be full for days.”

“Oh, I hope not,” she says, patting his belly and smirking when he belches. “We’ve got a lot of leftovers.”


	4. day 4: freshman fifteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matt x foggy, daredevil.

Matt and Foggy’s first trip to the dining hall is overwhelming, to say the least.

Matt steps back immediately, glad he took Foggy up on his offer to hang onto his elbow for the trip. The wall of noise and heat and smells sends him reeling, and he ducks his head against the onslaught, grinding to a halt outside the serving area.  
  
“You okay, buddy?” asks Foggy from his left.  
  
Matt nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just a lot of sounds coming from a lot of different directions, is all.”  
  
For a split second he wonders if even that’s too conspicuous a reason, but then Foggy makes an  _of course_  noise and goes, “Right, I read an article about that once. That your other senses usually develop more if you’re without one of them.”  
  
Matt stifles a wry grin. “Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“Must make this kind of noise kind of difficult. You ready to go in, or you need a minute?”  
  
“I’m okay,” says Matt, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go.”  
  
Foggy reads him the offerings at each station of the dining hall, and Matt is mildly horrified by how many foods he fails to identify by smell. He decides to chalk it up to the sheer volume of smells around him, rather than the ambiguity of the smells themselves.  
  
He lets Foggy fill a plate for him, and manages to create a decently healthy meal. Foggy narrates as he goes, and Matt listens, half-awed and half-disgusted, by the quantity and diversity of the food Foggy adds to his own plate. A cheeseburger, a healthy slab of roast beef, mashed potatoes, beet salad, sautéed vegetables - Matt imagines his plate must be overflowing. Maybe it’s just a result of growing up poor and then growing up in an orphanage, but he’s never known any one person to eat so much in a single sitting.  
  
Maybe Foggy just wants to sample some of everything, he reasons. Maybe he doesn’t intend to eat it all.  
  
Matt is deeply, impressively wrong on this count.  
  
Foggy eats  _everything_. He eats as much as he talks, which is to say, near-constantly. He keeps up a steady stream of conversation between mouthfuls, pausing every now and then to take a breath or remark on the food. Something deep inside Matt, musty and dark, wakes up when he thinks about it too long, makes him squirm with something he recognizes vaguely as attraction.  
  
 _Do_ not _develop a crush on your new roommate_ , he scolds himself.  _That is a terrible idea._   _And developing a crush on his … appetite … that’s even worse_.  
  
Matt is largely silent - besides dealing with his quiet, panicked arousal, he’s having a hard time tasting the food around the rest of his sensory overload, so it doesn’t really matter how it tastes, making it easy to shovel down. It also provides a convenient means of distracting himself from the amount of food that Foggy is cramming down. For every time he catches himself squirming, he fills his mouth to give himself something to focus on.  
  
Across the table, Foggy stifles a burp. Matt catches it anyway, and his entire body tenses. He hazards a guess that it’s going to take a good solid hour of confession to absolve himself of whatever base sin he’s committing here.  
  
—  
  
Matt becomes attuned to Foggy. He can identify his footsteps down the hall, hear his voice from outside their building, pick out his heartbeat from across campus.  
  
He can also, to his deep chagrin, sense exactly how much Foggy’s movements have changed since the beginning of the year.  
  
Matt knows Foggy started the year off pretty chubby. Actually, he knows that Foggy’s been pretty chubby for most of his life, because Foggy has told him this, and Matt squirmed through the entire discussion. He knows how much Foggy weighed at the beginning of the semester (“This is gonna be fine,” he’d said to Matt, psyching himself up for a debate in one of his classes. “I’m two hundred and two pounds of awesome. I’m gonna knock this out of the park,” and Matt, curled on his bed, had quietly combusted), and would bet a good part of his tuition that the number is at least fifteen to twenty pounds higher now.  
  
Foggy’s gait is different now, his steps a little heavier. He gets winded a little more easily when he takes the stairs up to their room instead of the elevator. The bulk of his sides brushes closer to Matt when they walk together, and Matt struggles to keep it together.  
  
The upside to Foggy’s enamoration with dorm food, and food in general, is that for the first time in his life, Matt doesn’t go hungry. There’s a definite difference in his and Foggy’s eating habits - Matt eats for self-preservation, both physical and, lately, mental; Foggy, without question, eats to indulge. Matt has never seen anyone take so much joy in the simple act of tasting food as Foggy does.  
  
It’s never just a meal for Foggy, even if it’s just burgers and fries at the diner just off campus. It’s always an experience. He makes little noises of pleasure and exclaims over how good it is and sighs contentedly when he’s done. Sometimes if he’s especially full he spreads his legs - Matt can hear the vinyl of the diner seats creak, can hear the seams straining at Foggy’s thighs - and rubs his belly and burps, always excuses himself, while Matt digs himself into a hole of shame across the table and crams more fries into his own mouth.  
  
They’re knee-deep in finals week when Foggy finally rips a pair of pants. Matt can tell he’s been wearing mostly sweats lately - the sound of fabric rubbing between his thighs has been softer than the sound of chafing jeans or suit trousers. Matt doesn’t blame him - he’s been wearing sweats more often himself, too worn out from nonstop studying and churning out papers to make any sartorial effort.  
  
But Foggy had a formal class presentation this morning, so Matt hazards a guess that it’s probably his suit trousers that have given up the ghost when he hears the sound of fabric rending and Foggy grumbling “ _shit_!”  
  
“You okay?” Matt asks, shifting his torts textbook in his lap.  
  
“Yeah, just split a pair of pants, that’s all.” He can sense Foggy moving around, hopping out of the ruined trousers. He wonders, as he sometimes does, how often Foggy has spent in his underwear - or worse, naked - in front of him. He’s almost glad he can’t see, because a visual on all of Foggy’s chub would almost certainly do him in.  
  
He lets himself think about it sometimes, how it would feel, soft and supple in his hands, wobbly and warm. So much to grab, to smother him until he feels safe. Foggy is already the most comfortable person Matt knows, and he thinks that Foggy would be even more comfortable to touch.  
  
“Guess I can get rid of these,” Foggy is saying. “Not like I’ve worn ‘em much this semester. Think I’ve put on a few since September.”  
  
“A few,” Matt repeats quietly, mostly to himself, but Foggy hears.  
  
Luckily, he laughs. “Okay, more than a few. We both freshman fifteened pretty hard, huh? At least you haven’t popped any buttons or split any pants.”  
  
“Wha?” says Matt, caught halfway between  _we both freshman fifteened pretty hard_ and  _at least you haven’t popped any buttons_. His hand creeps to his stomach. Soft. Supple. “You popped a button?”  
  
Foggy laughs again. “Buttons  _plural_ , my friend. That dress shirt didn’t last two seconds against a ferocious order of Chinese takeout.”  
  
“Oh my god,” says Matt softly. He shuts his eyes, feeling around his own belly. He _has_  put on weight - not muscle, like he’s been striving for since he was twelve. This is definitely not muscle. This is three months’ worth of shoving food into his mouth to quell his sinful thoughts of Foggy’s overindulgence.  
  
He listens, almost like he’s in shock, as Foggy huffs his way into a pair of sweats, and then there’s a significant dip in the mattress as Foggy sits beside him on his bed.  
  
“I don’t know, buddy,” Foggy continues cheerfully. “I think we’re looking pretty good. You don’t look as Oliver Twist as you used to.”  
  
He nudges Matt’s shoulder with his own, playfully, and Matt can feel the heat radiating off his bulk, close enough to touch, to sink his hands into.  
  
Matt is  _so_  fucked.

 


	5. day 5: stuffing/feeding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matt x foggy, daredevil. (continuation of day 4)

Getting trashed on cheap beer with Foggy is probably not the best idea Matt’s ever had.

But their first round of finals are over, they survived their first semester of law school, and their GPAs remained mostly intact. And they haven’t had time to slack off like this since the first week of school, so they deserve to celebrate a little.

Matt doesn’t have much experience with alcohol, besides a gulp of whiskey here or there when he used to stitch up his dad after matches. He assumes his senses probably lower his tolerance, but that doesn’t stop him from accepting the six-pack Foggy pushes into his hands. “One for each of us,” he says. “Courtesy of my cousin Joey and his fake ID business.”

Five beers and a couple hours later, they decide to order pizza - online because Foggy can’t stop giggling long enough to make the call. They’re both sitting up in Matt’s bed, ostensibly watching Young Frankenstein (Foggy narrating heavily - “I want you to narrate documentaries,” Matt slurs. “But you don’t get a script. Just you being like ‘holy shit, that lioness is gonna beat the crap out of this guy’”).

Matt isn’t thinking about what it’ll be like to listen to Foggy consume an entire pizza on his own. It doesn’t strike him until Foggy is carrying the pizzas into their room that this is going to happen in extremely close proximity to him, and his drunken heart throbs and sinks.

“Here,” says Foggy, pushing a box at Matt. “This one is yours. Broccoli and mushroom, ya nerd.”

“This is  _enormous_ ,” says Matt, fitting his arms around the edges of the box. “Oh my god, Foggy, this is huge.”

“Yep!” says Foggy cheerfully. “Dig in. You need your strength.”

“For  _what_?”

“This is a really taxing movie, Matt. You can’t see the terrible effects so I don’t expect you to understand, but trust me, you will want the strength to stay awake to hear me describe all of this.”

“I do,” Matt agrees. He lifts the first piece of pizza to his lips, and fires off a tipsy prayer that he won’t fuck anything up too badly in this /extremely/ compromising situation.

Foggy is an even more expressive eater when he’s inebriated, if that’s possible. He doesn’t hold back any belches or sounds of pleasure, and the only thing keeping Matt from imploding is focusing on his own pizza.

He doesn’t realize how much he’s eaten until he’s finished the pizza and is leaning forward to toss the box onto his desk. His stomach cramps up, and he lets out a little grunt that becomes a moan as the cramp worsens and then passes.

“You okay?” Foggy asks, sucking pizza sauce off one of his fingertips.

“Yeah. Full,” says Matt, slowly sinking back against his pillows. “That was. A lot of pizza.”

Foggy belches deeply. “Fuck yeah. But we conquered ‘em both.”

“Yeah.” The cramp begins to spread to an ache, and Matt palms at his stomach, trying to work out some of the air. He lets out a limp, airy burp and exhales a groan.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” Foggy asks, and Matt feels him move closer. “You’re flushed.”

“Just warm,” Matt slurs. “Warm. Stomachache.”

“Oh,” says Foggy. “Well, c'mere. I’ll fix it.”

Alarm bells begin sounding in Matt’s sluggish brain. “I -”

“It won’t be weird,” says Foggy, “I promise,” and, well, if Foggy promises, then it must be true.

He lets Foggy scoot himself closer on the bed, until he can feel his gentle inhales and exhales. He’s breathing the way he does after big meals, and after all that pizza - Matt guesses that Foggy must be pretty full too.

Foggy puts his hands on Matt’s bloated stomach, and Matt freezes, sucks in.

“Hey,” says Foggy softly. “You don’t need to do that. Just breathe.”

Matt exhales. Foggy’s hands feel big, warm. They rub at the ache in his stomach, make him burp and blush.

“How’s that feel?” Foggy asks after a moment.

“Good,” breathes Matt. He burps, letting out a little groan of satisfaction afterward. “That’s good.”

“Good,” says Foggy, and Matt can hear the smile in his voice. “Take notes, because I’m gonna need one of these once I’m done with yours.”

Matt tries desperately to get himself together.

His first moments hovering above Foggy’s stomach are tense and hesitant.

“Just do what I did,” Foggy says gently.

Matt puts his hand on Foggy’s stomach. He’s bloated, but there’s such a thick layer of fat on top of his stomach that Matt almost can’t tell. He sinks his hands into Foggy’s flab. He’s so soft, so inviting.

“Press down,” murmurs Foggy. Matt does.

Foggy belches deeply, and Matt almost withdraws his hands for embarrassment. “Does that feel good?” he asks, and Foggy nods.

“Oh yeah. Get all the air out, that makes it feel better. Keep going?”

Matt could sit on Foggy’s thighs and go on forever if he were asked to, but all he says is “okay, just tell me when to stop.”

Foggy grins sleepily. “Might not tell you to stop at all.”


	6. day 6: mutual weight gain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (implied) oliver x tommy, arrow.

“Hey, Tommy,” says Oliver, stretching to tap his friend’s shoulder. “You wanna - _urp_  - hit me with that joint again?”

Tommy shifts, his stomach rolling forward in his lap as he leans toward Oliver. “You want more pizza too? There’s still some here.”

Oliver shrugs. “Sure.”

He rests the paper plate Tommy hands him on the swell of his belly and fits half of it into his mouth as Tommy takes a long hit off the joint. They’re two months into their junior year of college, and they’ve never been thin guys - too much food at their beck and call for that; living in the lap of luxury lends itself to overindulgence - but now when Oliver looks in the mirror, he sees a full-on belly instead of the little tummy bulge he started school with. He’s catching up to Tommy, who’s always been heavier than he has, and it’s watching Tommy reposition and navigate his bulk on the couch that makes Oliver think,  _I wonder how much I could gain before the end of the semester if I tried_.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says again, poking at Tommy’s stomach this time. His finger lands on the thickest part of the roll that sits on Tommy’s thighs, sinking into the soft flesh. “How funny would it be if we just like … gained a ton of weight this semester?”

Tommy looks over at him, eyes pink and glazed. “Dude.“

“It would be  _so_  funny,” says Oliver, palming his own stomach. He rolls toward Tommy on the couch and rests his head against his shoulder. “We could compete or something. See who can gain the most by Christmas.”

Tommy grins, slow and languid. “Yeah, okay, Ollie. Let’s do it. Loser buys dinner all next semester.”

Oliver burps into Tommy’s shoulder. “Got yourself a deal, Merlyn.”

Tommy laughs. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Naw,” says Oliver, pressing a hand into Tommy’s belly. “You’re not that much bigger’n me.” He reaches for the joint and takes another hit. “I’m still hungry. Let’s get Chinese or something. Whoever can eat the most dumplings wins.”

Tommy smirks and grabs at Oliver’s muffin top. “Sure, Ollie. Whatever you say.”

—

For the first time in his life, Oliver buys a scale.

They don’t keep track, really - Oliver checks in every now and then, when he feels like he hasn’t put on as much as he should have, when his pants don’t feel as snug as he thinks they should after a week of bingeing.

As Oliver gains, he finds that he just gets thicker, like his extra pounds are solidifying rather than softening him. His thighs squish together; his stomach sits in a firm roll on his hips, pushing out over his beltline. As the weather gets colder, he transitions to mostly hoodies and sweats, things that allow for bloating and don’t dig into him when he’s overfull.

Tommy, on the other hand, sacrifices nothing. He gets his pants let out, buys cashmere sweaters in increasingly large sizes as he gets heavier. While Oliver’s technique is mostly eating more and drinking as much beer as possible while going about his life as usual, Tommy eats and drinks and loafs. He goes to class, but aside from that, he devotes all of his free time to gaining. Oliver comes home to find him stuffed and groaning on the couch, massaging his stomach with both hands, legs spread, taking up two couch cushions.

They stuff together sometimes, splitting massive orders of takeout or making trips to the dining hall buffet until they can’t stand up. Oliver can feel his gait changing, can feel himself getting heavier and feel the way his belly moves when he rolls over in bed or sits a certain way. Tommy lumbers, hauls himself up from chairs and rests his stomach on tables, the back of the couch, anything at the right level.

"It’s heavy,” he complains when Oliver teases him about it. “I have like forty pounds on you.”

“I’ll catch up,” Oliver vows, but no matter how much he eats, he can’t seem to balloon at quite the rate that Tommy has.

Tommy, whose metabolism seems to have completely given up - the weight piles onto him like girth packed onto a snowman. He eats with abandon, stuffing himself until he’s groaning and whining and belching, until he’s so full that he sleeps on the couch instead of hauling himself to bed. Most nights Oliver is there with him, groaning and whimpering and belching, but Tommy always seems to be able to put away just a little more than Oliver. His love handles overflow his waistband; his stomach jiggles whenever he moves. He  _does_  have a good forty pounds or so on Oliver, at least.

And honestly, Oliver doesn’t even really care that he’ll be buying dinner all of next semester. Tommy seems satisfied with himself, and he looks … Oliver feels kinda weird thinking this about his best friend, but Tommy looks  _good_. His cheeks are pink and he looks continually satisfied, and on the few occasions Oliver has caught him poking and jiggling his belly in the mirror, he’s always looked pleased.

On the night before Christmas Eve, they weigh each other. They eat first, so their numbers might not be accurate, but at this point, there’s no question about who the winner is. Oliver clocks in at 227; Tommy, at 279.

“Fifty-two pounds more than you,” says Tommy, flopping back onto Oliver’s bed. “You owe me a ton of dinners.”

“I’ll come through,” says Oliver, flopping down next to him. “You’re gonna need a lot of dinners to keep that on … if you’re planning to keep it on?”

He isn’t thrilled by how hopeful his voice sounds, but Tommy doesn’t seem to notice. “I think so,” he says slowly, absently jiggling his belly beneath his navel. “I’m used to it now.”

“Kinda like it,” murmurs Oliver, massaging his own belly where it’s bloated with several kinds of Italian carbohydrates. “On me and on you.”

Tommy lets out a long, rumbling belch, working his arm around Oliver’s shoulders. “Yeah, me too.”


	7. day 7: size differences/comparisons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's so petty to create a whole chapter for this but i hated that the day numbers and chapter numbers were out of alignment when i left it out

~~~you can see day 7 on my [tumblr](alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com)! it features some of my OCs. i like them a lot but i don't think they belong on ao3. sorry! please proceed.


	8. day 8: body worship.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> karen x foggy, daredevil.

Karen turns to him, completely, fantastically naked, and he squirms, rolling the waistband of his boxers between his fingers. His undershirt is still on, clinging to his stomach, and he tugs at it with his free hand as she shakes out her hair and crawls back onto her bed.

 _She already knows you’re fat_ , he reminds himself.  _She’s still here_.

Ordinarily it doesn’t bother him. He likes his body, feels good about it. But there’s something cosmically disappointing about watching someone fall out of the mood when they look at it, a disheartening stomach-drop at the realization that they’re too shallow to appreciate him for everything he is. It’s not insecurity, he thinks, as much as it’s a burning desire to avoid getting caught in the other person’s embarrassment.

Some people like his chub when it’s wrapped up in a suit and vest and tie, but aren’t so keen on it once he gets undressed. They don’t want to see it bounce and sag and jiggle, don’t want to see stretch marks or dimples or rolls.

The first couple times it happened to him, with a handful of college flings, he stood in the mirror afterward and wondered which of the parts that magazines dubbed “problem areas” had been the dealbreaker. Was it his upper arms, the flab layered over his biceps? The crease beneath his ribs where his upper back fat gave way to his lower back fat? The dip of his double chin, the way his stomach doubled when he leaned forward? The way his thighs pushed together, or the cellulite that pebbled the backs of them? The way his sides nipped in and then billowed out again, or the way his love handles spilled over his waistband?

Now, he pulls his undershirt over his head slowly, waiting to hear her small noise of disappointment as he emerges. He keeps his eyes low as he steps out of his boxers, feeling his stomach fold and jiggle as he bends. Karen makes a little noise, but it sure isn’t disgust, and he glances up quickly to see her staring at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re … really hot,” she says, her voice a little awed. “I mean, I thought so before, but now, like this … damn.”

Foggy exhales. Grins. Crawls into bed next to her.

“And yet,” he says, between planting kisses up her neck, “nobody will give me a modeling contract so I can quit my day job.”

She squirms underneath him, pulls him on top of her, too quick for him to resist. “Whoa,” he says. Karen is sturdy, her legs and hips and waist a little thicker and stronger than they look in her officewear, but beneath him, she feels like she’s built from bird bones. “You gotta tell me if I’m hurting you, okay? I don’t want to squish you.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” she murmurs, knotting her hands in his hair and bringing her mouth to his. “I like how heavy you feel.” Her other hand creeps down, and he lets out a little noise of surprise as she grabs a handful of his muffin top. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, go for it.”

She squeezes the handful of pudge, rolling it between her fingers as she kisses him.

“This is like, a thing you’re into, huh?” he manages between kisses, and she answers the question with a particularly zealous grab to his ass.

“I like a little extra,” she says. “Makes me feel like less of a giant in my own right, you know?”

Karen’s got at least an inch on him, and that’s without heels. “But you’re such a hot giant,” he says, rolling over and pulling her on top of him. “Your legs are like half of me and I love it.”

She laughs, running her fingers over the red indents his boxers and trousers left around his waist. “Keep complimenting me and you’re going to have a lot more bruises here” - she grabs his belly again - “than I originally planned.”

“Think you’d better demonstrate.”

She slithers down until her mouth is level with his waist, then sucks at the soft, pale skin below his navel. He lets out a gasp, eyes pinching shut, and when she bites down a little, he feels the rational part of his brain switch off.

“Karen,” he hisses, lost in nerve endings, and he thinks he feels her smile against his stomach.

–

They’re in bed after a couple glasses of wine too many with dinner, tangled in each other. He’s inside her, and she’s grabbing at him like it’ll pull him in further.

He pauses in his thrusting to kiss her, and her grip on his love handles tightens as she opens her mouth to deepen the kiss. She arches up to him and gasps into his mouth, digging her nails into his skin. He’s still bruised from the last time they slept together, but he nods against her as she pinches at him, whimpering when she closes her teeth on his lower lip. She runs her hands down his sides, squeezes when she gets to the roll of his muffin top. His stomach laps against hers as they move, and she presses herself closer to him.

“You’re so big,” she murmurs into his neck, nipping at his double chin. “So soft, mmmm. I think you’ve put on a few.”

“Probably,” he says. “You keep feeding me …”

She grabs a handful of his stomach, squeezes. “It looks so good on you. It looks luscious.”

“ _Luscious_?”

She jiggles her handful of fat. “Mhm. Lush. Luxurious. All of its synonyms. You’re gorgeous.”

He grins, kissing her long and sweet. “ _We’re_  gorgeous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((((((reminder that day 7 is only on my blog bc it features my ocs)))))))


	9. day 9: button-popping/seam-ripping.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> joe x cameron, halt and catch fire.

Cameron watches Joe return from lunch every day for three weeks.

She watches him leave too, but the payoff is in the return trip. When he leaves, flanked by a cluster of Cardiff’s higher-ups, he’s loud, boisterous, smug. But when he comes back, he’s slower, more sluggish, his gait a little off, and he disappears into his office for the rest of the afternoon.

At first she thinks he’s just drunk - Cardiff’s ruling class has never skimped on its alcohol consumption - but then one day she keeps hitting the same roadblock writing the BIOS code, and his door is ajar when she goes to complain to him, so she pushes her way in.

He’s slumped at his desk, eyes closed, dozing maybe, a hand pressed to his stomach. The buttons of his crisp white shirt are pulled tight, and - she squints - yep, his pants are unbuttoned.

She stifles a little sound of - surprise, arousal, she’s not sure, but it’s just loud enough to rouse him. His eyes snap to attention, but the rest of him moves more slowly: he winces as he straightens in his seat, adjusting the hand on his abdomen.

“Cameron,” he says.

She fiddles with the zipper of her hoodie. “Your door was open.”

“A knock would have been nice.” He shifts in his seat, and she registers, vaguely, that his sides look rounder, closer to the armrests of his chair than they used to. She draws in a sharp breath.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, because she knows the answer, wants to hear him say it. “Are you sick?”

He shakes his head. “Big lunch.”

She steps back a little, nudges his door shut with her hip. Sneaks a hand behind her back, flips the lock. His eyes flick to her, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Oh yeah? They must fill you guys up pretty good, keep you submissive, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Can I help you, Cameron?”

“I watch you,” she says. “When you come back from lunch every day. You’re all slow and sleepy. They stuffing you with tranquilizers or something?”

He smiles languidly, like a panther unfolding from a nap. “In a manner of speaking.”

She moves closer to his desk. “Wanna tell me about it?”

He heaves himself up in his seat. “Come to lunch tomorrow. I’d rather show you.”

—

Joe plays it off like he can’t stand another moment without the Cardiff dictators meeting Cameron. He shows her off, an authoritative hand on the small of her back, opens discussions he knows she’ll be able to dominate.

She orders whatever he does, in an attempt to hold her own with the rest of them, and winds up with a large scotch in front of her and a larger steak on the way. Joe butters himself slice after slice of the soft white bread mounded in the basket in the center of the table. Cameron abstains in favor of coating her stomach with scotch. She sips and listens to the grating voices around her, chiming in where she sees fit, where she thinks she can get a rise out of them, and watches Joe’s mouth as he chews and swallows.

The steaks placed in front of them are massive, surrounded by heaps of potatoes and greens. Cameron sucks in a sharp breath around gulps of scotch. No wonder he’s so sluggish after all this.

She cuts into her meat, but her eyes are on Joe, who’s already chewing. They’re both on their second scotch, and he gives her a wicked glance as he swallows and goes back for another bite.

She’s amazed that he manages to keep up any conversation at the rate he’s eating. It’s like a dance for him, firing off remarks between bites and swigging scotch, but more often than not when she glances to him, his mouth is full.

As the meal progresses, her hearing seems to sharpen, and she picks up more and more small noises coming from Joe: soft grunts and sighs, stifled burps, little noises of discomfort. He’s finished with his steak, working his way through most of the potatoes and vegetables, and he keeps shifting in his seat, little movements that Cameron catches out of the corner of her eye: a hand to his protruding belly, a finger slipped between his shirt and waistband.

He’s breathing harder than normal by the time his plate is clean, and he suppresses a belch before reaching for Cameron’s plate with a glance that says  _May I?_

She pushes it toward him. She’s made it through half her steak, most of her potatoes, some of her greens. “Eyes bigger than your stomach, eh, missy?” asks one of the guys, and Cameron demurs with a saccharine smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’ll be worth it later when she’s fucking Joe on company property.

He’s talking a little less now, she notices. He’s entirely focused on the plate in front of him, wolfing down steak and scotch like this is what he’s getting paid for - consuming, instead of catering to the consumer.

He’s chewing each bite longer now, like it’s more of a labor than it was earlier in the meal. He takes deep breaths between bites, presses his hand to his stomach. Cameron is squirming, imagining how packed full he must be, how heavily that food must be sitting in his stomach. Beneath the table, he looks painfully bloated, and Cameron grinds her teeth into her lip.

She finds herself digging her nails into her palms as he nears the last bite, trying to downplay her arousal so the rest of the table doesn’t catch on. He forks it into his mouth, chews for a long time, and finally swallows, then sinks back into his seat and shoots her a look that’s simultaneously pained and triumphant. Then he raises his napkin to his lips and muffles a rich belch in the fabric, and Cameron has to choke back a whine.

His breathing is shallow now, and when he gingerly attempts to sit up straighter, there’s a small, unmistakable  _pop_  and his hand flies to his belly, and Cameron almost drags him to the bathroom right then.

She squirms as they call for the check, all through the drive back to Cardiff. She watches Joe brace himself on as many things as possible on his way out of the restaurant and into the building, and once he’s safely situated back at his desk, she makes her move.

“Look at you,” she says, locking the door behind her. “You weren’t wrong about the tranquilizers. You can barely move, you’re so stuffed. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

He groans, resting a hand on his distended belly. “Gloat if you want, but this would be the perfect time for some of your inappropriate workplace touching.”

She grins, sidles up to his desk and takes a seat on his lap.

“Careful,” he says sharply, a moan chasing the words, and she laughs, poking at his stomach. It’s hard under the layer of fat, and she cradles it in both hands.

“Look at  _you_ ,” she repeats. “No wonder you’re getting fat. Keep this up and they’re gonna have to roll you in from lunch.”

His face is already flushed, but she thinks he turns redder. “Touch me,” he grouses, chasing the words with a burp. “I did this for you, you know.”

She smooths his hair, then pinches his stomach. “Oh, I know,” she says, thumbing the curve of his gut. “Tomorrow I’m bringing dessert.”


	10. day 10: humiliation/teasing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marci x foggy, daredevil.

“Oh, my god,” says Marci, settling onto Foggy’s thighs. “You look  _big._  Looks like winter break was very good to you." 

Her voice drops to a purr, and she palms both sides of his stomach, hands warm through his t-shirt. "Mmm, you’ve put on a few, I think.” She squeezes a handful of his ample belly, and he shifts beneath her. 

“Hey, it takes a lot of food to keep this thing full,” he says. “I gained something like twelve pounds over the holidays." 

Her cheeks flush. "Oh, really?" 

"Really,” he says, grinning. “You wanna explore it?" 

She grins wickedly and slips her hands under his shirt, pushing it up to the crest of his belly. ” _Look_  at you,“ she says. "Those twelve pounds went straight to your gut. I don’t know how you’re still buttoning your pants with all that flab in the way." 

An aura of warmth starts to creep over his body, the way it always does when Marci teases him. He likes the undercurrent of wonder in her voice, the way that all her bluntness is undercut with affection. She’s made it clear enough that she loves his heaviness that her teasing doesn’t feel cruel. 

"You’ve got some new stretch marks,” says Marci, inspecting them with her fingers. “No wonder, if all you did on break was stuff your face." 

For a second, her hand drops to his inner thigh, climbs up to his dick, and lingers there, a minute acknowledgement of his arousal. Then she’s back to his belly, slipping her fingers between the rolls that form when he sits (and, if he’s being honest, are starting to form when he stands, too). 

"Look how fat you’re getting,” she says, her voice almost dreamy. “The way your stomach sits on your thighs now - imagine how big you’ll be after I feed you dinner." 

He squirms, trying to grind against her body. "You gonna stuff me?" 

"I am,” she says, pinching a handful of fat. “Although I’m not really sure you need it, looking like this …" 

"I do,” he says, arching against her. “I want you to get me full. All the weight I gained first semester was from you. I wanna be big for you." 

"Mmm,” says Marci, jiggling his stomach absently. 

“If you get any bigger, we’re going to need to go shopping again.” She runs her hands down his sides, over their lush curves and billows. “What size, now?" 

He shrugs. "Popped the button on my forty-twos over break." 

She inhales sharply. "Oh, did you." 

"You sure you can hold it together if we go shopping for forty-fours?" 

"No promises. I might have to tear your clothes off in the dressing room again." 

"A little eager, aren’t you?” he says, laughing. 

She scowls playfully, pinches one of the rolls of his side. “Forty-four is my favorite number,” she pouts, running her fingers under his belly, in the crease where it rests on his thighs. “Can you blame me?" 

He kisses her. "Just forty-four?" 

She quirks an eyebrow coyly. "Forty-four and  _up._ ”


	11. day 11: eating contest/buffet/all-you-can-eat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> liv/major/ravi gen, izombie.

After the  _extremely_ painstaking process of selecting her Fantasy Football team (seriously - how do people think about anything else when their team is constantly in jeopardy?), Liv heads to Ravi and Major’s to catch the Seahawks game.

Ravi isn’t one for football, unless it’s soccer, and Major has never gone super hard for football either, but it’s either watch with them or cheer alone in her apartment, so she heads over, bearing buffalo wings (Wimpy and Jet Fuel) as a reward for putting up with her latest brain blast.

They’re slow to answer the door when she rings the bell, and when Ravi finally comes to let her in, his first word to her is - well, a hiccup.

“Hello to you too,” she says, stepping into the house. “You guys ready for the Hawks?”

“Erm,” he says, stifling a burp behind his fist. “Something like that, yeah.”

She studies him for a moment. He’s got a t-shirt on instead of his usual button-down and sweater, and the soft roll of his belly seems to push out more than usual.

“Oh,” says Ravi, his eyes landing on the food in her arms. His hand goes to his stomach. “You brought food.”

“Hell yeah! It isn’t a football game without wings. You guys are hungry, right?”

He doesn’t reply, just gives her a look and leads her down the hall to living room.

Major is lying on his back on the couch, hands pressed to his belly. The game is on, but judging by the three empty pizza boxes, empty six-pack, and wreckage of napkins on the coffee table, it isn’t the boys’ first priority. 

“Hey,” says Major weakly, raising his head a little.

“Oh my god,” she says, looking between them. “What did you guys do?”

Ravi eases himself into the armchair beside the couch. “Might’ve had a bit of a bet going before you got here.”

“Oh, yeah? And who won?”

“ _No one_ ,” says Major emphatically, as Ravi says, “I did, obviously. This one couldn’t even get up to answer the door.”

Liv sets the buffalo wings on the coffee table and perches on the edge of the couch. “What was the bet?”

Ravi nods to Major, idly massaging his own belly. “That he couldn’t eat as much as I could. So we matched each other slice for slice and it turns out he can, I’m just better at it.”

Major moans, scootching up on the couch to put his head in Liv’s lap. “Seriously, I don’t know how he isn’t in agony right now.”

Ravi sinks down a little in his seat. “Greater stomach capacity. I eat like this a lot more often than you do.”

“How?” says Major, wincing. “This is awful.”

“You get used to it,” says Ravi. “After a while it starts to feel good, even.”

Major shoots him a scandalized look, then turns his gaze to Liv. “Will you …?” he asks, taking her hand and moving it to the curve of his belly. “Like you used to?”

Ravi’s eyebrows shoot up. “’Like you used to?’ Is this something the two of you used to do?”

Liv shakes her head. “One semester during college, the guy who was in charge of getting liquor for his frat bought almost exclusively Bacardi.” She pats Major’s swollen stomach gently. “Rum gives him bellyaches. I used to wake up to him moaning and groaning like this after every party.”

“Not every party,” he objects. Liv tweaks the little bit of squish above his hipbone - that and the tiny bit of pudge under his chin are the only two consistently soft spots on him.

“Most parties. Come here, big guy. Get a little closer so I can work my magic.”

He grimaces, but he manages to push himself toward her. “Careful,” he pleads. “I feel like I’m gonna burst.”

“I can’t believe that neither of you, at any point, was like, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t each try to eat a pizza and a half,’“ she says, pushing his shirt up and laying her hand on his stomach. His skin is hot, his belly hard underneath. "Oh, wow, you’re bloated.”

He nods, a low whine escaping him.

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

He shakes his head. “A little queasy, but I‘ll be okay. It’s just” - he hiccups, his face flushing - “we split the double jalapeño one we got for you and that made it a little worse.”

Liv rubs an experimental circle on his stomach, and he moans. “Ow.  _Ow_. Uggghhh, I feel huge.”

“Eyes were a little bigger than your stomach, huh?”

He exhales a groan. “Not a whole lot is bigger than my stomach at the moment.”

He squirms a little against her, and when she looks down at him, her chest tightens a little. There’s something about seeing him vulnerable and helpless and needy like this that gets her right in the caretaking instinct, and it’s all she can do not to cuddle up to him and use her whole body to make him feel better.

That would be rude with Ravi in the room, and plus, she wants to catch at least a _little_ of the game.

“Okay, okay,” Liv soothes, digging her thumb into the space beneath his navel. “I know it hurts. You’re gonna feel better in a little while. But first you need to get some of the air out, okay?”

She glances at Ravi, expecting him to give her the disgusted,  _can you not_  look she usually gets when she and Major get too coupley. But instead, he looks amused, sunk low in his chair, both hands working over his own swollen belly.

“You’re such a  _baby_ ,” he says delightedly, eyes on Major. “This is totally worth the slight discomfort, I’ll have you know.”

Major belches, then groans, his cheeks turning pink.

“There you go,” she says. “Little better?”

He nods. She presses into his belly again, and he closes his eyes, makes a little noise of relief.

“Here,” she says, reaching lower. “Is it okay if I just -”

She carefully undoes the button of his jeans, and although he stiffens a little at first, he relaxes once her hand has moved. “Yeah, that’s okay. That feels a lot better.”

Ravi burps, shifting in his chair. “That’s a very important step in recovering from this kind of thing. Unbutton all possible buttons.” He pushes up his shirt as he rubs his belly, exposing his soft brown muffin top, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his own unbuttoned pants.  

Major’s stomach gurgles as Liv rubs circles over it, and he gingerly turns onto his side. Another burp rolls up from his belly, and he stifles it behind his hand.

“Let it all out,” says Ravi, letting out another belch of his own. Liv looks between them, wrinkling her nose. 

“Hey,” says Ravi, “ _you_ wanted to come over here and hang out with  _us_ , remember?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think that would require playing Florence Nightingale.”

He shrugs, pointing the remote at the TV to turn up the volume. “Hope you’re enjoying it, because I’ve got my eye on your buffalo wings and I might need your magic hands next, if you’re willing.”

“Depends,” says Liv, rubbing a little harder at the lower part of Major’s belly until he burps again. He looks like he’s getting sleepy - and no wonder, with all those carbs and beers in him. “Will you shut up so I can watch the game while I do it?”

Ravi grins. “No guarantees.”


	12. day 12: scientifically augmented weight gain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ravi/liv gen & ravi/major gen, izombie.

**WEEK 1, DAY 1**

The rat’s teeth sink through the slats of his chain-mail gloves, and Ravi jumps back, shaking the rodent free. It lands safely in the wood shavings in its cage, and Ravi backs up until he’s against the wall and sinks to the floor, cradling his throbbing hand.

Last time, the bite didn’t take - no virus, no side effects, not even a tiny scar. But this is a different dose of utopium, and a more aggressive rat, and maybe even a different strain of the virus.

But this time, he has two tiny, experimental vials of cure in his refrigerator.

Both Blaine and Major appear to have recovered just fine from their zombieism on his first batch of cure. And by general logic, his second batch should be more refined than his first, right? So … he should be fine too, right? Even on the chance that he’s not infected?

He glances at the rat, who bares its teeth at him, and then at the fridge.

Better suffer at his own hand than at the hands of rampant zombie virus, he figures, and after a few more minutes of convincing himself, he hauls himself up and prepares a syringe of the cure.

He finds a vein in his forearm and eases down the plunger of the syringe until all of the serum is gone, and he can’t tell if he can feel it actually pulsing through his bloodstream, or if his heart is just beating so hard that he can feel it everywhere.

He sinks back down the floor with the notebook he keeps his rat observations in. The virus is transmitted relatively quickly, he knows, but he’s not sure if he has it, he’s not sure about the cure, he’s - he’s panicking, is what he is, so he puts his head as far between his knees as his position will allow, and he waits.

**WEEK 1, DAY 3**

The hunger is overwhelming.

Not the hunger for brains, he explains to Liv as she perches on the counter with her plate of brainchiladas with jalapeno cream sauce. The regular kind of hunger, just … amplified. By a lot. Over the course of the past two days, he’s emptied all the snack jars he usually keeps in the lab for busy days and late nights, and generally within half an hour the hunger pangs hit him all over again. Last night, he worked his way through an entire pizza, a large order of mozzarella sticks, and a pint of ice cream before finally passing out with the waistband of his boxers rolled down.

Liv tilts her head to the side, fork paused in the air. She’s on Freud-brains this week, after a U-Dub psychology professor was killed in a drunk-driving accident. “Is that some kind of mutation? You know, of the animalistic side that the zombieism opens up. Like instead of craving brains, the cure tempers it so that you just crave food instead?”

Ravi shrugs, tearing into his own lunch - a burrito the size of his face from the mom-and-pop Mexican place down the block. “I suppose so. I can’t imagine why else this would be happening.”

“Well, hey,” says Liv. “That could be worse, right? You could be having hallucinations or developing a weird rash or something. Anything is better than the crushing desire to chow down on brains all day. Hey, how long do you think the side effects will last?”

“No idea,” he says around another mouthful of carnitas and rice. “I’m not even sure if there’ll be any others. Gotta wait and see, I guess.”

She wafts her plate under his nose. “As long as these don’t start tempting you.”

“If I weren’t still _extremely_ averse to consuming human brains, that cream sauce would be calling my name.”

**WEEK 2, DAY 6**

Ravi is scribbling in his notebook when Liv walks into the lab that morning, and he looks up at her and bites his lip.

“So,” he says. “I think I discovered another side effect.”

Liv sets down her bag, shimmies out of her jacket. “And what’s that, big guy?”

He wrinkles his nose at the nickname, but she’s on college-girl brains this week, so who knows what terms are popular with the kids these days.

“Sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t get a handle on this girl yet. Her visions are real slow to come on. What’s the side effect? Are you getting the weird zombie-radar goosebumps?”

He squirms a little, fiddling with the buttons on his lab coat. “Nope, not that one.”

“Okay, then what?” she asks, sliding into her own lab coat. “Is it something really weird? Do I want to maybe not know this about you?”

He stalls. “Major and Blaine didn’t experience the hunger thing, did they?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Must have been this batch of cure, then.” He shuffles a handful of toxicology reports on his desk. “Well, off the hunger thing …”

She’s not really listening, he can tell, but he goes on anyway. “I seem to be … gaining weight?”

Liv snaps around. “You’re what?”

His stomach growls, and instinctively he reaches for the closest of his refilled snack jars, this one full of malted milk balls. He ate a double cheeseburger less than an hour ago; he shouldn’t already feel hunger sharpening in his stomach.  

“I’m gaining weight,” he says. “Rapidly.”

“Oh,” says Liv softly, and her eyes go wide as he shoves another handful of candy into his mouth.

“Can I help you?” he asks through a mouthful of chocolate.

She shakes it off, the way she does after a vision. “I - I just learned something else about this girl.”

“And what would that be?” he asks before tossing another handful of malted milk balls into his mouth.

She shakes her head. “Oh my god.”

“Do you want to share?” he prods.

“You first,” she says, a little shaky. She sinks into the swivel chair in front of the computer and crosses her legs. “Tell me more.”

“I can _show_ you, if you like,” he says, a little exasperated at her theatrics, and she throws her hands up as if to push him back.

“Whoa there,” she says. “Give a minute to process this. Talk first.”

“Okay,” he says, puzzled. “So I’ve noticed my clothes have gotten a little snugger over the past - it’s been, what, almost two weeks now? And the hunger, you know, I’ve been eating a lot, but this is still … too fast to be occurring normally.”

“ _What’s_ too fast to be occurring normally?” asks Liv, and Ravi realizes her eyes are closed.

“The weight gain,” he says. “Major keeps a scale in our bathroom closet, so this morning I decided to see if I was just imagining the changes because I’ve been so bloated from all the eating, but … nope. I’m eighteen pounds heavier than I usually am. And I've got a visible belly. That’s not normal.”

He watches her jaw twitch, and then she nods. “Yep,” she says. “I definitely just learned something about this girl.”

“Are you _ever_ going to tell me what it is?”

Liv covers her face with her hands. “This would not be a problem any other week.”

Ravi screws the lid back onto the malted milk ball jar, waiting.

“She was a chubby chaser,” whines Liv.

Ravi’s turn to facepalm. “Oh, God. Are you …?”

She nods behind her hands. “Super accidentally turned on right now? Yep. I am so sorry.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Ravi, crossing his arms over the new swell of his belly.

She raises her eyes to him. “I will try my hardest not to be weird about it, but I can't promise anything.”

**WEEK 3, DAY 1**

Ravi stands in front of the bathroom mirror, the hem of his T-shirt tucked under his chin so he can survey the damage. The scale says he's already five pounds heavier than he was the other day. His belly curves into a soft brown mound, gently bisected at the bottom by a little cleft like a peach, and a couple of stretch marks have appeared on its underside. His sides round out over his waistband, and he runs his hands over the expanse of belly over and over again, squeezing and poking to make sure it’s real.

The strain it’s putting on his clothes is real, that’s for sure. It’s getting harder to button his pants, and the buttons of his lab coat protest a little when he does them up all the way.

His stomach gurgles, begging to be fed, and he rolls his eyes. He jiggles his belly experimentally and watches a little ripple jog through it.

“Major?” he calls, rolling his t-shirt down and turning off the bathroom light. “I’m going to order Thai, do you want anything?”

**WEEK 3, DAY 4**

Chubby-Chaser Girl is difficult. The visions Liv gets from her tease at being relevant to the case, but there’s always something missing - something just out of reach.

The day after Liv’s third serving of her brains, Ravi comes into the lab around lunchtime to find a smorgasbord of Chinese food cartons sitting on his desk and a sheepish Liv curled in the swivel chair.

“She really wanted me to bring you lunch,” she says, cheeks pink.

He surveys the feast in front of him, and his stomach growls.

Liv smiles a little. “At least it’s not me slapping your ass in the workplace, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “I maintain that we are keeping a firm taboo in place for sexy brains for the duration of your employment here.”

“I’m trying really hard not to make this a sexy brain because I don’t want to make you feel weird, but she’s strong-willed.” She opens a carton and peers inside. “I’ll eat with you. Their gan guo is spicy enough for me.”

“Fine.” He flops down in his desk chair and reaches for the carton closest to him: lo mein with shrimp. “Did you get egg rolls?”

Liv looks offended. “Did you think I _wouldn’t_?”

He stuffs a bite of lo mein in his mouth. “Pass the egg rolls.”

He works his way through most of her order, and by the time he’s finished, he’s stuffed, leaning back in his chair, panting and massaging his belly. He can feel the buttons of his dress shirt straining beneath his sweater, and he wonders how long it’ll be before he pops one of them. “Maybe if I eat like this all the time I’ll stop getting hungry every half hour.”

Liv practically purrs. “I’ll keep bringing you lunch if it helps. As long as the brains last, I mean.”

Ravi groans, stifles a burp. If he were at home, sprawled out on the couch, he would unbutton his pants to give himself room to bloat. “I don’t know if my pants will last as long as the brains will.”

“Do you feel all right?” asks Liv, scooting closer in the swivel chair. “Achey? Queasy?”

He considers it. “A little achey.”

Her jaw tenses and then loosens. “Well, if you want … if it wouldn’t be too weird …”

He tips his head back and exhales. “Yeah?”

“I could rub your belly?” she offers, and when he cranes his neck to look at her, her cheeks are rosy. “Strictly platonically, I mean. But it might help.”

He glances at the clock - fifteen minutes of his lunch break left. His stomach does kind of hurt.

“All right,” he says. “ _Strictly_ platonically.”

Her eyes light up, and she wheels herself closer to him. “Okay,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m just, uh, gonna … go with my gut?”

Ravi rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might pull something.

She places her hands on his stomach, running her fingers down the line of buttons, visible beneath the knit of his sweater. “Oh, wow,” she says softly. “You’re … really big.”

He grunts. “Thanks, Liv.”

“No, I mean … in a good way? You’re so full, wow, look at you.” She begins rubbing circles over his belly, and he sighs a little, surprised by how nice it feels. “That good? Yeah? Okay, yeah. I’m gonna press in a little here, okay? Get some of the air out.”

She digs her thumbs in just beneath his belly button, and a belch escapes him before he can stop it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and she grins, bites her lip.

“Don’t be sorry, that’s good. Should I keep going?”

In spite of himself, he nods. “Yeah. Feels good.”

“Okay,” she soothes, making smaller circles with her hands. “Man, you weren’t kidding about that weight going on fast. How much is it now? Can I ask you that? Is that okay?”

“S’fine. Probably about twenty-five by now? I’m sure this lunch put on a couple pounds on its own.”

“Mmmm,” she says dreamily, then catches herself. “I mean - not _mmm_. I mean, that’s a really bizarre side effect and I’m sorry if I’m making a big deal about this if you’re not happy about it.”

“It’s a bit of an inconvenience,” he admits. “Things are starting to get snug … but altogether, it’s probably less of an inconvenience than being a zombie.”

“Most things are,” she says, running her hands up and down his sides. She applies a little pressure, and he burps again - and this time, he feels the new but unmistakable sensation of one of his shirt buttons popping loose.

“Er, Liv?”

“Yep?”

“I definitely just lost a button under my sweater.”

Liv goes bright red. “ _Oh._ ”

He sits up in his chair with a little difficulty, feeling everything in his stomach shift as he moves. “If you keep feeding me, I’m sure I’ll lose the rest soon enough.”

“Don’t tempt me,” says Liv, looking faint.

**WEEK 4, DAY 5**

“Hey, man,” says Major pleasantly, leaning against the fridge as Ravi unloads their spoils for the evening: enough wings to give them both significant stomachaches. “There’s something I wanna talk to you about.”

“Shoot,” says Ravi absently, opening the containers of wings to determine which are his and which are Major’s. He hasn’t eaten in a couple of hours, and his head starts getting cloudy when he goes that long, a distracting buzz, almost anxious, that overtakes him until his stomach is full. Liv, true to her word, has been providing him with enormous lunches (and belly rubs after), but those only keep him satisfied for so long.  

“So lately,” says Major, “it looks like you’ve, um, put on some weight?”

Ravi puts down the container in his hands. Major’s out a lot of nights when he comes home, then gone again early in the mornings - prime training hours for the corporate guys who hire him, before and after their nine-to-fives - and as a rule, Ravi tries to keep Major out of the zombie drama anyway. He didn’t mean to _not_ tell him about his cure dilemma, but there never quite seems to be a good time to say _Hey man, so I might’ve gotten zombied at work today, and I might have taken some untested cure to prevent it._

“Oh, yeah,” says Ravi, toying with the lid of a container of bleu cheese dressing. “About that …”

“It’s fine, of course,” says Major, peeling himself off the fridge and ambling towards the food. “If that’s something you’re happy with, of course that’s cool. I just wanna make sure, you know, that everything’s okay. That you’re not having some kind of emotional crisis and taking it out on yourself.”

Because that’s what Major does when he has emotional crises: eats until he feels better. He’s still struggling to work off the little tummy he put on back when Liv first broke off their engagement.

“I’m fine,” says Ravi, passing Major a container of honey barbecue. “Or - I’m fine _now_.”

Major eyes him. “ _Now_?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” says Ravi, grabbing a sheaf of napkins and sitting down at the kitchen table. “One of my rats bit me a couple of weeks ago, so I used some of the new batch of cure -”

Major’s eyes go wide. “You got bitten?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I don’t know if I was even infected. But I guess maybe I went wrong with this batch, or maybe this is what happens when you take it and you’re not infected, I don’t know. Either way, instead of craving brains, I just crave food. All the time. And it’s, er, sticking.”

“I can see that,” says Major, grabbing a napkin and a wing. “But you’re - you’re okay?”

“A hundred percent. Except for, you know, the thirty-five extra pounds and the fact that none of my pants fit.”

“Do you … like it?” asks Major, sucking hot sauce off his finger.

Ravi shrugs. “I don’t hate it. I don’t get cold in the lab anymore.”

Major rolls his lips together, nods. “Okay then, buddy. Let me know if you want someone to go shopping with.”

**WEEK 4, DAY 7**

It’s a good thing he has plans to go shopping with Major that weekend, because that Friday, he crouches to examine some evidence at a new crime scene, and the trouser seam along his right thigh gives up the ghost and splits.

He immediately looks up to see if Liv and Clive have noticed. Liv is sucking her teeth, determinedly looking in the other direction, and Clive is making his patented _you gotta be kidding me_ face.

“Been having some laundry issues lately,” Ravi mumbles, straightening up; he's uncomfortably aware of the February air on his inner thigh.

Clive takes out his phone, stares at it. “Don't think you can blame this one on the laundry,” he says under his breath.

There's no way he's easing Clive into the zombie world to explain this, so Ravi shrugs. “I've been hungry lately.”

“You gonna take care of that?” Clive asks, waving the hand holding his phone toward Ravi’s thigh. “Or are you enjoying the breeze?”

Behind him, a vein is throbbing in Liv’s temple. He wonders suddenly if the effort of trying to contain her accidental arousal could trigger one of her zombie rage fits, and he quickly jams his legs together.

“Y'know,” he says, “I think I'm just gonna wait in the car.”

**WEEK 5, DAY 3**

He's getting used to feeling heavier. It takes a little more effort to do things like haul himself out of bed or roll onto his side, especially when he's full, and he finds that he doesn't have as good an idea of how much space he takes up anymore. He bumps into things in the lab more often, knocks things over with his belly if he stands too close to the table.

The scale says he's up about forty pounds since he got bitten, and his belly is so round that he can balance plates and beer bottles on it when he sits. Liv’s chubby-chaser brains have worn off over the past week, the girl’s case finally solved and ruled an accident. He thinks a little of her might have stuck with Liv, though - she still grinds her lower lip between her teeth when he wears clothes that strain (rarer now since he and Major have gone shopping) or when his belly gets in the way in the lab. He wonders if that girl’s brains awakened something that had been dormant in her.

He's slow to admit it, but he likes it. There's an addictive freedom in eating whatever he wants, a pleasant luxury in constantly overindulging. He would never have opted to gain the weight of his own accord, but maybe the cure woke up something dormant in him too - a grudging affinity for being a big guy.

He's getting _really_ good at making jokes about it, though.

**WEEK 6, DAY 1**

Ravi wakes up, and he isn't hungry.

He rolls over experimentally, thinking maybe he's still dreaming - he's become so well acquainted with the gnawing sensation in his belly that its absence that being without it is almost painful - but he pinches his belly a couple of times and convinces himself that it’s real.

Major finds him sitting at the kitchen table, poking at a bowl of cereal. He looks between Ravi and the cereal a couple of times, almost comically, and his eyes get wide.

“Are you not … aren’t you eating?”

Ravi shrugs. “I could.”

“But no … rampant starvation?”

“Not yet.” He picks up a spoonful and lets it fall back into the bowl. “It’s odd, you know? Not having that … _compulsion_.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about being five hundred pounds by bikini season,” Major jokes, sliding into the seat across from Ravi. “You have a little more control now.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He takes a bite of cereal and swallows. “I think I might keep it on, though. It’s growing on me.” He smirks, and Major rolls his eyes at the pun.

“Your capacity for terrible jokes expanded with the rest of you.”

Ravi laughs. “I don’t know, I think more is preferable in both of those cases.”


End file.
